Go here to read some preliminary thoughts.

I so totally agree with Sara, and in Lauryn Hill's "That Thing," there's a line that goes:

Baby Girl, respect is just a minimum, don't act like you're a hard rock when you really are a gem.

And that also sums up a lot of my feelings about women, and the fact that I'm a virgin has a huge amount to do with it as well. I can't tell you how many girls I know lost there virginity at a young age and call it a mistake. Losing my virginity isn't going to be a mistake, 'cause I respect myself.

I understand that as a women in American Society, we have a tough time. The media is trying to tell us we're not good enough unless we're thin, beautiful, wiht a man, and having sex. We can't aspire to be smarty pants or even housewives any more, 'cause the world is just catch 22 for us.

I don't think enough moms teach their girls to respect themselves, 'cause they don't respect themselves. Take my mom: she is the daughter of an abusive acoholic mom, bread in the fifties, with a dad who believed in work. She married my dad who beat her and went on to marry a man who molested her daughter and cheated on her. (She knew he was cheating on her.) She was horrible with money, hates sex, and has lived her whole life in a society full of men telling her she wasn't good enough. How the hell was she supposed to try to teach me respect?

And the cycle goes on. I could grow up to live with an abusive husband and pass it on to my girls, or worse, to my boys. I won't, but I've seen friends who do.

We have to brak the cycle. Firstly, we have to teach our daughters respect, but I think we need to teach our sons the value of a women. 'Cause John and my friend Michael are about the only two boys I could name right now who would know how to treat a girl right.

MM! This subject gets me all fired up! But, I wanted to answer.

I have two answers. One is about my dad. And y'all are probably going to hear a lot about him, 'cause right now is my healing time. But, I decided to add another fear conquering story so y'all wouldn't be bored to death with my father tales.

K, number 1: I stopped speaking to my dad on Christmas Day 1998. For the next three years, I worried constantly that the real reason I stopped speaking to him was because I was a snotty brat and not because he was incompetent. When I returned from Hawai'i, I decided I couldn't put myself through agony anymore. I drove over to his house.

With my heart beating in my chest, I knocked. My step-mom answered the door, and lead me to the living room where my father sat on the couch reading the paper. I wondered if he was as torn up inside as I was, and I said, "Dad, do you love me?"

He replied, "Of course." All flippant as if I was some silly school girl.

"Then why haven't you called?" I asked.

He went on to tell me hwo I'd been disrespectful and all I could think about was how he never respected me, my whole life. So, I left. I told him he knew where I lived if he wanted to get to know me.

'Cause that was the point, he didn't know me. I didn't know him either. I conquered my fear of speaking to him and learning that he doesn't really love me and a whole ton of other dysfunctional crap. I walked away crying, but knowing that conversation had given me more insight about him than my whole life.

Fear number 2: I am sooo afraid of heights. Here's how afraid:

I went for a walk the other day. In the woods next to me was a fallen tree, so I climbed up it. When I reached the spot where the trunk had snapped, I couldn't have been more than ten feet from the ground, probably less. I was so scared, I climbed right down immediately. Actually, I think crawled would be a better description.

So, the summer of 98, I was a camp counselor. My resident cabin was old enough to participate in the rock wall climbing offered every Thursday to all cabins. As I hung out, I noticed the teens were doing something called the Pamper Pole. Determined, I asked the head counselor guy if I could to it. He said yes, and so I did.

I started by climbing a ten foot ladder to some pegs in the side of a telephone pole. I climbed on the pegs and went the rest of the way to the top of the twenty foot pole. From there, I had to figure out how to get into a standing position on the top of the pole. I have good balance, so I managed. Next thing you knew, I was standing with both my feet on top of a telephone pole, looking out at a trapeze sex feet away and two feet up.

The goal was to do a standing long jump from the telephone pole and catch the trapeze.

I thought I would die, and I had no idea how to do it. I told them my jump phrase so the belayer (I don't know if that's spelled correctly)-guy holding my safety rope-would know when I was jumping. I yelled at everyone to stop talking, screamed, "BUTTER!", and jumped.

I was in the air for a second, two at the most. I was totally superman pose, arms out in front of me, with no hope of catching the trapeze, legs spread behind me, almost as if I were swimming. I remember thinking how hard it would hurt if my face hit the ground after falling twenty feet.

Then, miraculously, my safety rope caught.

I was lowered to the ground, and rarely have I ever felt so alive.

But that's how I do things. When I'm afraid, I act as if I'm going to run away. Shortly after said act, I go running at my fear, face first, and dive in. If I stopped doing that, I'd stop living.

(Thank you for reading my long-ass entry!!!)